


down in flames

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [12]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Clint Barton, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Physical De-Aging, Sub Bucky Barnes, Sweater Paws Bucky, Twink Bucky Barnes, that was the most important part everything else is background noise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 06:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Clint’s awoken from his nap by a very loud rumble.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 61
Kudos: 377
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	down in flames

Clint’s awoken from his nap by a very loud rumble.

He doesn’t _hear_ it, because his aids are on the counter amongst an assortment of McDonald’s wrappers. Instead, he feels the vibrations rumbling up from the floorboards he’s sprawled out on, thinks for a second that he’s fallen asleep in a massage chair at the mall again.

He cracks open one eye and is instead greeted with the familiar sight of Bruce’s break room in his lab. It’s a good spot for naps, when someone isn’t trying to blow something up, and he sits up, blinks blearily around for answers. There aren’t any, which means it didn’t come from Bruce. The other, more _likely _option is that it came from Tony’s lab opposite and Clint gets to his feet and retrieves his hearing aids.

Immediately there’s yelling.

Loud yelling. And smoke.

The yelling sounds more pissed off than scared, though, and Clint feels safe enough to approach the metal door with curiosity. He recognizes the voice, but it sounds off somehow, and he’s about to call out a greeting when he’s nearly knocked over by the figure trying to barrel through. Instead they just bounce off of Clint’s chest, nearly fall to the ground in a mess of scruffy brown hair and oversized hoodie.

“Woah,” Clint says, reaches out to steady them. “You okay?”

“_No,_” they spit, nearly vibrating with anger, and it’s only when blue eyes flick up to glare at him that he recognizes who it is.

“_Bucky?_ The fuck happened?”

“_Stark _happened,” Bucky snaps, crosses his arms over his chest. It’s not as threatening as it usually is. He has sweater paws, delicate fingertips peeking out from the thick wool.

He barely reaches up to Clint’s chest. Now he’s staying still, Clint can take in the haphazard cut of his hair, the way it’s falling into his eyes, the way his clothes are far too big for his frame. He’s not short by _normal _standards, maybe five foot seven or something, but he’s thinner as well, missing the usual bulk and leaving him almost _delicate_. Bucky’s still glaring at him, but he’s missing the beard and the shadows under his eyes and like this, it’s easier to take in the long lashes and bitten-red lips and Clint is.

Clint is-

“Oh my god, Barnes. You’re a _twink,_” he gets out before he starts laughing. Bucky kicks him in the shin and it’s got none of the force it normally does, and he ends up on the floor again, laughing so hard he doesn’t have to think about how he kind of _likes _it.

Eventually they get back to the laboratory with a worried-looking Bruce, once Clint’s stopped snickering.

“We were trying to work on bringing back some of his memories,” Steve explains, casting a sympathetic glance towards Bucky. Bucky doesn’t stop scowling, just turns the dark look on Steve instead of Tony, who’s scratching the back of his head nervously. “It went… off, somehow. Put his body back instead of his head.”

Clint snorts.

Bucky turns his glare onto Clint, which doesn’t have _quite _the amount of threat it should, mostly because he’s sitting next to Clint on the couch and he has to look up more than usual to glare. Clint doesn’t worry about it, just passes over the mug of coffee that Bruce hands him.

Bucky takes it - he has to shove the baggy sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows first, though, and that’s a sight. The loss of the metal arm is _weird_, and Clint gets caught up in watching the slim fingers of Bucky’s left hand curl around the mug, holding it like he’s not quite sure how to. His ring finger is slightly crooked like it’s been broken and hasn’t been set properly. It’s oddly charming to see him like this.

“How old are you supposed to be, anyway? Fifteen?”

Bucky’s glare intensifies.

“Nineteen, twenty thereabouts, I’d say?” Steve offers. “He used to wear suits and slick up his hair so he’d look older. Didn’t matter, really, he looked older compared to me anyway.”

“_No,_” Clint says, sounds scandalized even to his own ears. “Shit, Steve, how did you two get anywhere? I wore glitter leotards at fifteen and they still let me into bars."

To be fair, he’d already hit six foot by fifteen, but still.

“I want photos of that,” Bucky says distractedly, then seems to remember he’s supposed to be pissed off, starts frowning into his coffee instead. Clint snickers. Natasha had got pictures somewhere, managed to steal them off of someone so she could make fun of Clint when she got _really _hammered. Steve’s doing that smile he does when he’s thinking about the old days, and Tony’s still staring dismally at whatever’s on his screen.

“Did it help with your memories?”

Bucky grimaces. “Sort of. Not really.”He doesn’t elaborate beyond that and Clint doesn’t push him, just takes his own cup of coffee and downs the whole thing in one go.

“So, what now?”

“Stark’s going to _fix _it,” Bucky growls.

“I don’t know what went _wrong _with it,” Tony says, frustrated. “If I don’t know what went wrong, I can’t reverse it, and I’m _not _testing you when you pull out a fucking knife every time I get the needles. Either you stay still and don’t threaten me while I’m working, or you wait for me to figure it out. Your choice, Terminator.”

Bucky hunches a little more around his coffee cup, but he doesn’t make another comment about Tony. Clint gets it, the guy’s been poked and prodded enough by Hydra for a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even, or more. He doesn’t have to do it if it makes him uncomfortable. Clint knows _Tony’s _not going to make Bucky do it either, regardless of the mutinous expression he happens to be wearing right now.

“Will my version of the serum help any, Tony?”

Tony looks at Steve thoughtfully, then over to Banner. “Big Green?”

“It might help,” Bruce says hesitantly. “I need to look at what you did the first time, though. Maybe if we take some blood samples, run it back through and see what feedback we got, it could replicate the situation and we could get some idea.”

Tony replies with a bunch of complicated science babble and Clint feels his eyes start to glaze over from boredom. He glances around the room and Steve’s going over to Tony to submit himself to testing, and when he looks down next to him Bucky’s mouthing silent curses as he tries to pull his extremely loose pants up, a bare sliver of pale skin showing.

Well. That’s something.

“You okay there, Buck?”

Bucky grunts. It’s not very convincing, but Clint takes it in stride anyway, makes his way over to the coffee machine. It’s day two of Bucky being slammed back into his barely-twenties and he looks even _more _displeased than he had the first time, although it’s probably got something to do with the fact he’s had to borrow jeans from Natasha. His thighs fill them out more than Natasha’s do, actually, and Clint would never tell Natasha that but they look _better _this way.

Then again, Natasha would probably want to appreciate those thighs too.

He’s still got the oversized hoodie on. Bucky’s almost swimming in it but somehow it manages to be more endearing and - dare he say - _cute_, rather than ridiculous.

Clint makes his second cup of the day and downs that one too, and then fills up a third before he sits down on the couch. He sits on the opposite side from Bucky, making sure there’s some space between them in case Bucky decides he’s pissed off at Clint as well. Bucky’s still scowling.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Using my guns feels… wrong,” he admits, although the answer takes so long Clint isn’t expecting it. “Moving around feels wrong. I keep trying to open jars with my left hand and I can’t do it.”

The last one feels a _little _less important than the others, but Clint takes it in stride. “It’s going to take some time to get used to it, dude, it’s a big change. It took you a while to get used to the metal arm, right? Maybe try other things until you find something that feels right.”

“They shocked me so I got used to the arm faster,” Bucky mutters, and Clint doesn’t know what face he makes but Bucky’s looks sad, briefly. It’s not that his facial expressions are different - they’re exactly the same, actually, and that’s comforting. He still looks _young_, though. Clint’s caught between wanting to murder every Hydra operative he can locate and wanting to just pull Bucky into his lap and hold him close so nothing else can touch him.

It’s stupid. He’s well-aware Bucky can take care of himself and Clint would _never _try to take any form of independence from him, but apparently his monkey brain has decided it’s going to go into overdrive with Bucky looking like this.

Something lands on his thigh and he looks down to see a controller. It’s got a purple sticker on it, and he looks up to see Bucky loading up a game on the television, studiously not looking at him.

“You said try something else, you can help by letting me kick your ass at Mortal Kombat,” Bucky says. “I’ll come up with other things to do later.”

Clint picks up the controller and hopes the weird feelings will go away.

They don’t.

Steve and Tony don’t come up from the lab, and Bucky makes himself comfortable on Clint’s couch. It’s not that different from normal, actually, except that it is. Bucky steals a couple of beers and downs them all in one sitting - Clint stays sober, because he’s not sure about how alcohol and this new-old body Bucky’s wearing mix, even if Bucky doesn’t drink enough to get properly drunk.

Clint’s being weird about it, he _knows _he is, and he’s trying so hard not to be.

“What did you _do _with your time? You know, when you were,” Clint stops here to gesture at Bucky’s whole body, legs splayed and lazy expression on his face. Bucky turns to press his cheek against the couch when he looks at Clint, all relaxed grace and half-lidded eyes. “Like this.”

“Mostly worried about Steve, broke up fights ‘n had sex with strangers in alleyways,” Bucky says, lips curling up into an indulgent smirk like he’s remembering it. Like he’s _thinking about it_.

Clint swallows, hard, tries not to look like _he’s _thinking about it. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, too caught up with whatever’s going on in his brain. Maybe the machine _did _work to some degree, because he seems to recall these memories well enough. Clint watches him chew his bottom lip thoughtfully, still looking in Clint’s direction but his gaze vague and unfocused.

“’s real nice,” Bucky says after a minute. “Used to go to old Ester Lopez’s parties, listen to the music. Dress up all pretty and get people looking. ‘specially the men. Meet up ‘round the back, tease them ‘til they’re all desperate and rough. Dangerous, back then, but that just made it better.”

“I mean, I could sneak you out, I think Tony and Steve would kick my ass, though,” Clint says, and he’s trying so hard to keep his cool but. “You, uh, you liked it… rough?”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, stretches out a little more. It draws Clint’s eyes down to where he’s half-hard in his jeans, and Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from doing anything stupid. He’s not going to jump Bucky just because he’s a pretty twink now.

Except Bucky’s looking at him like _that_, like he _wants it_, and Clint’s only one man- one very weak, kind of terrible man with no sense of self-preservation. The offer escapes him before he’s had time to talk himself down from it. “I can’t get you out the Tower, but if you just want. I mean. _I _could?”

Bucky’s still spread out on the couch like he’s a full-course meal, but the look on his face is something else _entirely_. Clint’s never seen that look before, the blue of his eyes all invitation with a little bit of challenge splashed in there. Like he’s daring Clint to try something.

God, Clint wants to _ruin _him.

They eye each other off for a good ten minutes before Clint remembers how to talk again. His voice comes out rusty when he speaks.

“You want it now?”

“Yeah_. Yeah_, want you to_, _c’mon_,_” Bucky says immediately, voice going rough and breathy. He hadn’t even taken a moment to think about it, which means he’d probably been thinking about it _before _Clint asked him, had probably _wanted _it before they’d said anything. It goes straight down to Clint’s dick and a punched-out noise is all the reaction he manages.

Then he’s got a lapful of warm, soft-looking Bucky, sitting on him like he _belongs _there and leaning in for a kiss.

Bucky kisses him like he’s trying for casual but can’t quite manage it, hips squirming under Clint’s fingers restlessly as Bucky nearly grinds down into his lap, stops himself at the last minute. Clint doesn’t even remember touching Bucky to begin with, and now his nails are digging into soft wool and rough denim. He bites down on Bucky’s lip, feels him moan.

He’s _loud_, and Clint has to get his hand into messy brown hair and _pull_.

That doesn’t really help the situation because now he’s been yanked back, Clint can see the blue of his eyes swallowed up by black, the way his chest is rising and falling rapidly.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, and Clint yanks at his hair again just to see the way his face goes slack and wanting. Clint feels like he should be getting stabbed, or at least threatened for _daring _to do this to the Winter Soldier, but there’s no sign of that here right now. It’s just Bucky Barnes and the way he arches up beautifully when Clint tightens his grip.

“God, Barnes,” Clint says, voice rough even to his own ears, can’t get over this. He’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of forever, having Bucky hard and dazed-looking in his lap. “You really get off on the rough treatment, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t answer verbally, but his hips jerk under Clint’s other hand and that’s enough of a _yes _to get the heat twisting in Clint’s stomach.

“Get on your knees,” he orders, manages to put enough steel into his voice that he gets a wide-eyed look for it.

For a second Clint thinks maybe he’s not into _this _kind of rough and then Bucky’s sliding down to the carpet, still staring at him with dark eyes and a flushed face. Bucky’s hands have immediately dropped to rest on his own thighs and yeah, he’s into this. He’s _really _into this, based on how hard he looks. Clint reaches out to touch the red of his bottom lip, takes his hand away when Bucky tries to lick at his fingers.

“You got a colour, Buck?” He hopes Bucky knows about this or it’s going to be a long lecture about consent and safety instead of just the deliciously hot sex, because Clint’s big on people knowing what they’re getting into.

“Green,” Bucky answers though, easy as anything. He’s resting his cheek up against the side of Clint’s knee and Clint watches as his eyes slide close, face rubbing up against the denim. His lips are still parted and he turns his face into Clint’s thigh, breathes warm air through his jeans. _Fuck_, it’s hot. Clint has to get his fingers knotted in Bucky’s hair again to yank, earns himself a soft noise.

“That should be illegal,” Clint says. “_You _should be illegal, fucking hell. You gonna let me rough you up?”

“Please,” Bucky says and it sounds so _desperate _that Clint wonders if Bucky’s _brain _thinks he’s still twenty years old and easy. “Clint, c’mon.”

Clint taps his cheek with his free hand - it’s not a slap, not even close, but Bucky still leans into it like he’s _hoping _for it. He looks so out of it already that Clint’s taken aback, in a far off sort of way. Clint wants to keep him, wants to mess him up so pretty that everyone can tell and then take pictures. Bucky’s keeping his hands off, but his mouth is edging further up Clint’s thigh with interest.

“You want to suck me off that bad?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just tongues wet at the thick denim covering his cock. Fucking _hell_. That’s a yes if he’s ever seen one, but. Clint keeps a tight grip on his hair, pulls back slow and hard until he can’t reach any part of Clint’s body with his mouth. Bucky makes a whining noise and Clint holds him there easily. And it _is _easy - sure, Clint’s got the physical advantage, but the real surge of pleasure comes from knowing that Bucky’s _letting _him do it.

“Ask me for it,” Clint says. Orders. Waits for some sort of resistance.

He doesn’t get it. “Let me suck you off,” Bucky says immediately. “Want to feel your dick in my mouth, come on, make me take it.”

Well, that’s good enough for Clint. He’s not going to make Bucky work for it that much - honestly, he’d probably give Bucky whatever he wanted without a second thought, but the teasing is _delightful_. He lets go of Bucky’s hair and waits a few seconds just to see, but Bucky sits back and waits even though he’s at biting his lip so hard it looks painful.

“Hoodie off,” Clint says as he reaches down to unzip his jeans, lifts his hips up to push them and his underwear down his thighs. He doesn’t waste time and neither does Bucky, so the second the hoodie is off he’s grabbing Bucky’s hair again and yanking him closer.

Whatever blowjob experience Bucky is lacking - Clint _knows _Hydra didn’t buy into that kind of useful and he’s explicitly grateful for it - he more than makes up for it with enthusiasm. Clint has to bite his tongue and hold still for a second, take in the way Bucky’s licking a stripe up his cock messily. He’s still watching Clint as he does it, dark eyes and far too lucid for Clint’s liking. It feels like a challenge, like a dare to take it further, and Clint’s nothing if not competitive.

Bucky gets his mouth around Clint’s dick and Clint waits until he’s looking comfortable with it before he gets his hand back in Bucky’s hair and yanks him down a couple more inches. He’s a little surprised when Bucky doesn’t choke, doesn’t do anything other than moan around his cock like it’s _exactly _what he wanted out of this.

So Clint does it again.

_Make me take it,_ Bucky had said, and Clint’s more than happy to supply.

There’s no question about who’s in charge here. Clint’s controlling the pace, dictating exactly how far he’s going to let Bucky go down on him. It builds up too quickly, especially with Bucky making those soft, desperate noises that are muffled by his cock, _fuck, _he has to pull Bucky off for a few seconds so he can breathe.

That’s actually _worse_, because Bucky’s gasping wetly at the ceiling, mouth red and used-looking. His eyes are watering a little and it’s gorgeous, Clint needs to make him cry properly next time. (_Next time?_) Bucky’s straining a little at the grip on his hair, manages to get his mouth just barely pressed up against the tip. It’s an _extremely _nice picture.

“You are _unfairly _pretty, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, voice hoarse but a dazed sort of smile edging onto his lips.

It’s _just _sassy enough that Clint’s amused, so he gives into the bambi eyes he’s getting and pulls Bucky back onto his cock. Then he decides that’s not enough, so he spreads his legs a little more and thrusts up into the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky just takes it, his fingers curling around Clint’s ankle carefully like he needs something to anchor himself.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, a little awed. “Look at you.”

If anyone had asked him a year ago if he’d want to get the Winter Soldier’s mouth anywhere _near _his dick, Clint would’ve said no thank you, because an assassin’s teeth are very dangerous things. Natasha’s bitten him a few times, he knows from experience. Like this, though, it’s dangerous in a different way because Clint could get addicted to having Bucky on his knees.

To be fair, Bucky looks like he’s having a religious experience as well. Clint’s had his share of face-fucking and it’s fun, sure, but he’s never enjoyed it _that _much. Bucky looks like he’s a few thrusts away from being on cloud nine, and Clint’s gotta pull him back again, enjoy the view as he starts jerking himself roughly.

“Face,” he grits out and Bucky closes his eyes as Clint comes over his cheeks and mouth. He’s aware in a distant sort of way that Bucky’s shuddering under his hand, but it’s all white noise in comparison to the mess on Bucky’s face. Clint blinks as Bucky licks at his lip absently, makes a sound like he's enjoying the taste of it.

“You’re not allowed to be this hot,” Clint says. “The assassin thing was already too much for me, have some mercy. Get up here, Barnes.”

Bucky wobbles as he tries to get up, looks off-balance and so far away that Clint has to help him back on the couch. His chest is damp with sweat and Clint trails a few fingers down his chest, then digs his nails in to hear Bucky gasp and arch into it.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice rough. “Fuck, _Clint_.”

“Doesn’t look like you need my help,” Clint replies as he notices the wet patch on Bucky’s boxers. “Kind of a slut, huh?”

“Sure I am,” Bucky answers, unapologetic. “How long do you need before you can fuck me so hard I forget how to talk?”

Well, he’d asked for this. It’s not like it’s a hardship. “Forty minutes?”

“Twenty.”

“If you get cocky I’ll get the restraints.”

Clint wakes up to an empty bed.

The mattress is still warm, though, so he doesn’t worry about it too much. He rolls over into the space Bucky’s left behind, kicks the covers away. Every muscle in his body is aching pleasantly, the glow feeling like it’s down all the way to his toes. Clint drinks in a few more moments of silence as he replays last night, has to grin into the pillow.

The grin probably looks too smug to be polite, so he lifts his head instead, blinks his eyes open. It takes a few tries before the room stops being blurry, and it’s not like he can _hear _where Bucky is. He’s fairly sure he accidentally threw his aids on the floor somewhere last night, which isn’t an _unusual _occurrence but additionally isn’t very helpful. There’s also a distinct lack of clothes, but those are less important.

He realizes a second later that the bathroom light is on, casting a glow across the carpet from where the door is ajar. Well, that solves that mystery. Probably just taking a piss. Clint sprawls back onto the mattress, thinks about offering to make breakfast. It’s only fair, considering. He’s _comfortable_, though.

No, he’s going to be a good person.

Bucky deserves some bacon and eggs for his time, if not a medal. As Clint’s fitting his aids into his ear - he was _right_, they were on the floor, thank god they’re not fragile - he hears a bird scream outside, but doesn’t hear anything from the bathroom. Huh.

“Barnes?”

“Calm your tits,” comes the answer a second later. Who taught him to say that? It must’ve been Natasha, because Clint certainly doesn’t say that, and neither does Steve. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Bucky doesn’t sound upset, just a little distant, but it’s always good to double-check. Clint pads across the carpet while he pulls a pair of sweatpants up his thighs, quietly hopes that Bucky isn’t having some post-sex regrets. That’d be just his luck, wouldn’t it? _Surely _the gods aren’t that cruel, to let him have that one night and then snatch it all away again.

Clint sticks his head in the bathroom door, though, and Bucky’s just standing there facing the mirror, hair falling into his eyes and boxers low on his hips

He looks - well, he looks like he’s been _ravaged_. The boxers don’t do anything to hide the finger-shaped bruises on his thighs and hips, others trailing across the pale skin of his throat. He's got scratches fading on his back, biting his lip so absently that Clint wants to offer to take over for him. Bucky’s eyes are distant as he presses against a mark on his collarbone. He looks a million miles away and Clint can’t help sidling up to him, resting his chin on top of that shaggy mess of hair and curling his fingers around Bucky’s slim waist.

“Tell me you’re not having second thoughts,” Clint mutters, mostly teasing. He can’t put the warm satisfaction he’s feeling into words that make sense.

Bucky’s reflection rolls its eyes at him. “You’re an idiot.”

It’s close enough to what Bucky would tell him at normal size, murderous beefcake size, that Clint feels reassured by the insult. Bucky leans back into him slightly and he can’t stop the helpless smile taking over his face, hides it in Bucky’s bedhair. It’s just _nice_, is what it is, and Clint would be happy to stand here for a few long hours if it meant he gets to touch.

“You’re weirdly good at that,” Bucky says.

“Standing in front of a mirror?”

Bucky elbows him. “Take the damn compliment. I’m sayin’ I’d want to do it again. If you wanted to.”

“Anytime, Bucko,” Clint answers gleefully, ignoring the pleased squirm in his chest. “Anytime.”

Bucky settles into a routine after that.

Half of the team is experimenting with machines, different ideas to reverse whatever it was that went wrong in the first place. Bucky isn’t needed most of the time - Clint suspects it might be because the lab makes Bucky nervous, so Tony’s not calling him in unless he absolutely has to.

Instead, Bucky spends half of his time curled up in a corner of a couch reading a book in the sunlight, opening jars with his _right _hand, or going for walks, now he doesn’t have to do anything even close to a mission.

Clint joins him for some of the walks. It’s one of those _just nice _things that he gets to do now, and sure, sometimes Bucky gets adventurous and wants to fuck in a Starbucks bathroom, but it’s just as good when he walks too far and naps on a park bench. It’s good because Bucky’s relaxed in a way Clint doesn’t normally see him, and not at all because he chooses to take his naps with his head in Clint’s lap, smiling when Clint starts petting him.

It’s a _little _bit because of that.

Bucky's just - settled, like this, and Clint's wondering whether this was a blessing in disguise, and not just because of the sex. 

The other half of Bucky’s newfound time revolves around appearing in Clint’s floor on the Tower in various shades of undress. He never verbally asks for anything, just sprawls out on the couch or the bed or the floor and makes a face at Clint. It’s always Clint who has to initiate it, which is funny because it’s always Bucky who makes it clear that he _wants _it, and _now_.

Clint humours him either way - which is to say, Clint has the best sex he’s had since he was eighteen, and he’s pretty sure he’s just romanticizing that one time in the woods with Carl Baxter. (Also, he was _incredibly _high at the time.) There’s something incredible about Bucky trusting him with this. Clint’s kind of sappy when he’s not in a dom headspace, and even _in _the dom headspace he’s got to appreciate how important this is.

Bucky always stays the night, too.

Clint loves that part as well. He thinks that might be Bucky’s way of humouring _him_, letting Clint cling to him afterwards, but he doesn’t ask. Bucky gets more wriggly in the morning once he’s recharged and Clint lets him go. Most of the time Bucky will come back and plant himself in Clint’s lap after a breather, and it’s good. It works, letting him come and go as he pleases, reminds Clint of Natasha when she was getting used to having a mission partner.

It’s sex, yeah, but it’s something else as well. Comfortable, maybe. Clint’s not one for fancy words and poetic verses.

“Mission time,” Natasha announces, throws Clint’s tac vest at him.

It hits him in the face and he groans, rolls over and hides his face in Bucky’s stomach. It’s not hard muscle like it was before, flat and lean - it’s still a terrible hiding spot. Nice and warm, though. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore Natasha even as she grabs his ankle with a deceptively strong hand and yanks him off the bed and onto the carpet.

He sprawls out on the carpet, gives her a half-hearted glare. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?”

“Like you’ve ever been private a day in your life,” Natasha answers dryly, nudges his hip with one booted foot. “Get up. We’ve got work to do.”

“But-” She nudges him again, a little harder this time. Clint would be tempted to call it a kick if he were a braver man. “Ugh. Fine. Give me twenty?”

“No,” she says. “I said _now_, Barton.”

He keeps grumbling, but he does untangle himself from the sheet he dragged down with him. By the time he’s standing, Natasha is holding out a pair of purple briefs like they’re poisonous, and then when he takes them she moves to pick up his pants and holds them out. It’s like he’s a small child that can’t be trusted to dress himself. He probably _can’t_, because if she left him alone he’d go back to bed, but it’s still kind of mean.

Clint glances over the bed and Bucky’s rubbing a hand over his face sleepily, blinking up at the ceiling. He’s either completely oblivious to the third presence in the room, or he’s noticed Nat and he just doesn’t care. Bucky’s also naked, but he’s got the advantage of the blankets actually covering anything important.

“You goin’ somewhere?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Clint says apologetically, ignores Natasha’s crossed arms in favour of getting back on the bed to look down at Bucky’s sleep-rumpled face. “I’ll be back later?”

“Get some Kit-Kats on your way back,” is all Bucky has to say, although he reaches up to get a handful of Clint’s undershirt and tug him down close. Clint’s not sure what he’s up to until he gets lips pressed up against his jaw, just a brief touch and then Bucky’s letting him go again.

“Okay,” he agrees when he sits back. “Kit-Kats. Sure.”

He grabs his vest on the way to where Natasha’s already exiting the room, zips up and grabs a couple of knives to stick in his boots. The rest of his gear is already on the helicopter they’re taking, and they make it to the elevator in silence. They also ride the elevator in silence, Natasha checking her phone. Clint thinks that maybe Natasha isn’t even going to mention the fact that he’d slept with their teammate, and it clearly wasn’t the first time.

“Is it a sex thing?”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “It’s kind of a sex thing.”

“So it’s not _just _a sex thing,” Natasha says, reading between the lines. She leans up against the wall, regards him curiously. “Interesting. Do I need to give you the shovel talk?”

“You’re supposed to give _him _the shovel talk, you’re my partner,” Clint grumbles.

Natasha looks unimpressed. She stares him down silently and Clint tries to do it back, tries to summon some sort of badass persona that could win a contest against Natasha Romanov. It doesn’t work and he sighs, looks down at his boots. He should have probably bought new ones at some point, but Tony had promised him badass steel ones and he’s still waiting for those.

“You don’t need to give me the shovel talk,” Clint relents.

“Good,” she says, kicks his ankle gently. “Hey. I’m happy for you. You deserve something good, both of you.”

He loves her so much.

They’re at a dumb social thing when it happens.

It’s some party for government officials who pay highly for Avengers showing up at their stuff. Clint’s just here to accompany Natasha, because while she can and will break the fingers of anyone getting handsy, it’s easier for her to use Clint’s size to just deter them. Also, there’s free food. He’s planning to shove the money in the direction of the kid in his apartment block who needs a new wheelchair, because even though his mother doesn’t pay rent, money is still tight for them.

Natasha’s off dancing so Clint shuffles over to the large white table piled with food, sighs when he realizes it’s all vegetables and weird stuff like caviar. Would it kill them to supply some meat? Even something as small as a single slice of pizza would be an improvement. This place _sucks_. Man, he wishes he was home. Not even his apartment, just-

He’s not sure when _home _became synonymous with _wherever Bucky is._

Clint sees Natasha’s hair out of the corner of his eye, realizes she’s waving at him. When he turns she side-eyes the man next to her and then starts signing instead. _You’ve got company._

_What, _he signs back, and she points at the double doors leading outside. He’s still confused, but Natasha’s expression doesn’t allow for any arguments and she points again, more threatening this time. Clint sighs and starts squeezing his way through the crowds of people in gauzy dresses and impeccable suits. For a posh gathering, there’s quite a lot of grinding going on.

He realizes why Natasha was acting the way she was when he pushes through the doors and there’s a figure leaning against the wall in an oddly familiar purple hoodie. He pauses.

“Did you steal my clothes?”

“Did you come from a dumpster?”

The retort is instant, snarky and familiar, and Clint relaxes. “I’ll have you know that this is _Prada_, Barnes. This suit is worth more than my entire wardrobe.”

“And yet you still ain’t wearing it properly,” Bucky says dryly, stepping into the light. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, but that doesn’t cover the longer hair and the bulkier curve of muscle. The hoodie looks tight over his shoulders, clinging in a way it wouldn’t have seven hours ago, when Clint had wished him luck and gone off for a mission.

Clint’s breath catches in his throat. The machine had _worked_. Holy shit, the machine had worked.

“God, you’re a mess,” Bucky mutters as he steps close.

Clint stares.

Bucky’s mismatched hands land on his chest, gently fix Clint’s askew tie. Clint watches his face, the same jaw under all that scruff, same blue of his eyes, the crease in his forehead when he frowns at Clint’s shabby outfit. Somehow he’s had time to tie his hair into a half-bun, a few long strands curling around his face. Clint gets all caught up in _looking_, forgets to actually say anything.

Bucky’s eyes flick up to his face. Clint doesn’t know what expression he’s making, honestly, and he hopes it isn’t too telling of the chaos he’s feeling on the inside. Whatever it is, Bucky looks nervous.

“Is this still- is it okay?”

Bucky sounds so _tentative _that Clint’s chest hurts. He’s meant to be grumpy or neutral or happy or even low-key threatening, not _nervous_, and especially not nervous around _Clint _of all people.

“You’re still shorter than me, Barnes,” is what comes out of his mouth. He means _I like you any way you come, whatever version, I love every single kind and I’ve got a crush on you the size of the moon, don’t you know that by now, _but it’s not what he says out loud.

The smile still appears on Bucky’s face though, a little softer and more fond than he’d expected from proper-aged Bucky. It makes Clint’s heart twist in his chest in a way that’s painful but also kind of _sweet_.

“Be careful who you call short. I could kick your ass and you know it, Barton,” Bucky says, but it’s gentle when he tugs Clint in by his tie.

“I dare you to try, Barnes,” Clint says.

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: height difference
> 
> secondary title was "clint's twink senses are tingling" which amuses me to no end


End file.
